The wound we write from forever is a well, bringing forth sweet-scented water, blood-encrusted slimy vile, or the desiccated crumbs of crushed bone --
depending on the season. Searching for the sound only we can make, our shrieking, gurgling voices spew the products of our sores into every well we
see. Not deep enough. Not dark enough. Or simply not advanced enough. A sardonic accumulation of riches, layer upon layer of decaying memories.
But someone has to fertilize earth's crust before the sowing season.
|This page was last updated on: 10 April 2005|